


This tornado loves you

by taizi



Series: Problem Child [6]
Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Domestic Fluff, Gen, Human AU, Leatherangelo, M/M, Mikey is a good boyfriend, PTSD Leatherhead, Past LH/OMC, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, getting better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 23:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6133693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taizi/pseuds/taizi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the brightest thing you'd ever seen that day, rainbow of bruises, scattered freckles under a mop of dandelion curls and watercolor eyes. You hadn't known then what you know now– that he could touch you like this, really reach you, make you better. </p><p>(A <i>Problem Child</i> side story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the speed of sound

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on tumblr requested something from 'Problem Child' Leatherhead's POV. Did I jump on this prompt as a chance to write post-fic LH/Mikey? You bet I did.

It's been twenty years since the lab accident that cost you your second family and left you ugly scars, left you crippled in ways that don't make any sense, and sometimes it feels like you haven't moved at all since then. Your hands still shake on certain days, when you come too close to the oven and feel the packed heat on your skin, when a car horn blares or your own car's engine rumbles a little too loud. There's no telling, really, a good day from a bad until the bad happens.

You live most of your life in a state of fear. You hate the blackouts. You're afraid of the things you do, when your subconscious trips like that, when your brain convinces your body to react so violently. Your ex strode out of your life with glassy eyes and a bruise blossoming across his cheekbone, tears dripping down his face and a venomous, _"You're a monster,"_ coupled by a slamming door. You don't remember hitting him, but your knuckles were bruised, too.

You hate the blackouts. You hate that you can feel them coming, the way some people can feel the turn of weather in their bones, but there's nothing you can do to make them  _stop_. You got a prescription on two separate occasions, but stopped taking the pills quickly, both times – the medication made you sad in a way that stuck and clung, made walking over bridges _dangerous,_ made driving down to classes in the morning reckless endangerment because all you wanted to do was crane your weathered old car into every tree and pole you passed. You don't want to die. But for a long, long time, you were helpless and frustrated and terrified that you'd never figure out how to _live_ like this.

You're at home when you're breathing starts to quicken. Must have been something on T.V., or the neighbors cooking barbeque, or your thoughts wandered too far, you don't know. But you scoop Klunk off your lap and take her to the bedroom, setting her down safely inside and closing the door while you still have half a mind to. Already your vision is tunneling and gone all white at the edges, and fear pinches deep in your chest, and your hands fold into fists that hurt, that dig crescents into your palms.

You have one number on speed dial, and that's the one you call now. It rings a few times, and you know he's in class, and feel shame and guilt and regret that this is  _necessary,_ that you have to bother him like this work their way up your throat hotly, stinging and bringing tears to your eyes, and when he answers you can't speak.

 _"Yo, L? That you? Heeey, duuude,"_ he drags the syllables out playfully, laughter rich in his voice, and it reminds you of the way he adds too much vanilla to french toast. Laughter is his default, even after everything he's been through, the way yours is sleeping animal rage. _"Did you pocket-dial me again?"_

The phone is shaking in your hands. You can't speak. It might not be a blackout, but the panic attacks are no picnic either, and the burning doesn't abate even a little, and the tears start to track down your face, and you actively _hate_ yourself.

Then, softly, _"Buddy? You're there, aren't you. Hang on a sec- one sec, okay?"_ He's in class, but he's making time for you. Bailing on lecture even this close to finals and taking your call to the hallway, where he can give you his undivided attention. _"Okay. I'm all yours, Elly. I hope you can hear me. Are you okay? You need me to come home? Y'know what, I'll bribe one of my interns to take over the rest of my classes– s'not the first time I've had to bake emergency lemon bars, won't be the last. Hey, that means I'll get an early weekend! We can do something fun– well, we always do something fun. But this time we can_ plan _something fun, like an overnighter somewhere, y'know? You and me and our baby girl, make it a real family outing, haha– B &Bs are cat friendly, right?"_

He knows what he's doing. Knows how to loosen the anxious knot lodged behind your sternum the way he'll loosen the knot on your tie with his fingers when you come home from a seminar. It's the same thing, warm fondness and familiarity and a closeness that has always, always come easily between the two of you, since the day you met him in an alley years and years ago. He was the brightest thing you'd ever seen that day, rainbow of bruises, scattered freckles under a mop of dandelion curls and watercolor eyes. You hadn't known then what you know now– that he could touch you like this, really reach you, make you better.

Your hair is pulled up into a ponytail. He kissed the burned side of your face over coffee and crepes earlier this morning, and your stomach didn't flip the way it used to, because somehow, somehow you're used to this. You're used to him, and the way he occupies your life and your house and the largest part of your heart. You're used to it, and sometimes you can't believe you're here.

It's been twenty years, and sometimes it feels like you've come so far that you might be someone else entirely. Someone who stands tall despite their broken parts, and smiles at strangers in the corner store, and stays up late looking up recipes on Pinterest. The display on your phone informs you that the call has lasted twenty-one minutes and thirty-four seconds so far, and he's still talking, hasn't missed a beat. You know he'll talk for as long as it takes to make you feel better. You wonder if he's already in his office, packing that old saddleback briefcase with all the work he won't finish today, his thoughts full of nothing but heading home to you. Klunk meows in the bedroom, pawing at the bottom of the door, and you move to let her out. Michelangelo laughs in your ear, and your hands aren't shaking anymore.


	2. hugs and kisses

"I'm here for my daily dose of hugs and kisses!"

Your lab partners are familiar enough with Michelangelo at this point that they only smother good-natured chuckles behind their paperwork at his proclamation. You push the safety glasses you're wearing up from your eyes to your hairline, and follow his voice to the doorway.

He isn't allowed to come in while his own homemade _**'science stuff in progress!'**_ sign is in the window, a rule you enforce _strictly_ after one accidental chemical burn too many. So he lingers in the hall– wearing his NYU soccer varsity jacket over the over-large hoodie you loaned him once, years ago, in deference to the cold, rainy spring afternoon– and you can't help but indulge him when he beckons you impatiently. You can't help indulging him _ever_ , really.

You pass off your clipboard to your neighbor as you stand, peeling off your gloves and moving across the room in a few long strides. His face is flushed from the weather outside and the force of his smile, and your heart gives way a little.

"Shouldn't you be at class?" you ask as you near him, and Michelangelo adopts the most perfectly innocent expression you've seen to date. "So _yes,_ then," you add dryly. "Donatello is going to kill me once he figures out where you're sneaking off to."

"Pfft, he already _knows,_ L. He even slipped Woody some gas money this morning. Oh, Woody's waiting in the car by the way, he says hi. We have practice till late tonight, then Hob's dragging us to dinner because he doesn't think we can feed ourselves on our own. For someone who ain't captain anymore, he sure is _bossy_."

It's his way of letting you know he'll be home late, letting you know not to worry. He leans into the hand you cup around his face, and you brush your thumb over the scattered freckles dusting his cheek. His eyes are bright, summer blue, wide like open windows as he smiles up at you– and not for the first time, you wish it was possible to send a thousand thank-yous to all the yous in the past, your other lives who lived so well and loved so much that you somehow deserve someone like Michelangelo now.

"What am I going to do with you?" you ask softly, unbearably fond in a way that tugs at your heart, and he grins, stands on the toes of his bright orange hightops so your face and his are inches apart.

"Dude, I already _told you_ what I'm here for," he says, and you waste no time wrapping your arms around his waist and his shoulders, pressing your smile to his. Honestly, you think, as your coworkers laugh kindly behind you, as Michelangelo laughs against your mouth and tugs you closer, you could stand to indulge him a little more.


	3. risk management

Michelangelo is twenty-six, and receives his master’s degree in the fall. He found his niche in psychology, and you more than support his decision to continue until he has his doctoral, too. Donatello is so proud of him that he _beams_ with it. 

His hair is longer, where yours is shorter, than it was when you first met him, but forever a mop of unruly dandelion curls. He smiles at you from under a dusting of freckles he’ll never outgrow, and squeezes your hand.

His engagement ring is smooth and cool against your palm. You shift your hand in his until you can rub the small studs of orange sapphire with the pad of your thumb, and watch his smile break even wider, dimpling his cheeks, impossibly charming, even after all these years. 

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, singsong and teasing. “Leo may be a big-shot karate grandmaster or whatever he is now, but you could probably still take him if things go south. Besides, he _likes_ you. What are you so worried about?”

Michelangelo is twenty-six, and still very much the baby of his family. His big brothers will _always_ dote on him, even now that he’s taller than Raphael and pays his own bills and owns a loft in Manhattan with you; and _that_ is what you’re so worried about. 

“What if they don’t approve? What if _Leonardo_ doesn’t approve?” You watch his face carefully, the words weighing heavy on your heart. “You said yes, but surely you’d change your mind if– “

He’s still a good deal shorter than you, which is why he fists a hand in the front of your shirt and drags you down hard for a kiss. It’s chaste and closemouthed, a quick press of his lips to yours, but his grip on your arms is tight. 

“No take-backs,” he says when he leans away, and if you hurt him with your doubt he doesn’t show it. Just gives you a quick, flash-bang smile, and adds, “This ring is _mine_. We’re engaged now, you’re stuck with me forever, and my whole family is waiting inside for us to tell them the great news. Seriously, you’re putting us _way_ behind schedule, me and Karai should have been flipping through these wedding catalogs by now.”

You steel yourself and nod, ringing the doorbell. Almost immediately, you hear voices in the foyer and quick steps moving toward the door. And before your anxiety has any fighting chance to choke you, Mikey’s head is pillowed sweetly on your shoulder, his arm tucked tightly around yours.

“Head high,” he says gently, the same way he did that first time you cut your hair and exposed your scars to the world. There’s whole years of warmth, whole years of affection in his voice, along with a love you would recognize anywhere, when he adds, “Good luck, buddy.”


	4. baby, look at us

Michelangelo wasn’t allowed to MC his own wedding, though not for lack of trying. April and Donnie were on a  _warpath,_ moredetermined to see this night off without a hitch than the situation really warranted – not that you dared say as much to their faces – and the grooms were not allowed to do much more on their Big Day than offer opinions (when asked), and sit around looking pretty. 

On two occasions, you tried to help set up the rooftop venue in secret, be it with lights or equipment or seating, and on both occasions you did not get away with it. Similarly, Mikey was forcibly extracted from the kitchen four times, and at that point Casey and Karai were put on ‘babysitting-the-bridegrooms’ detail.

The unofficial wedding planners _did_ relent when Michelangelo begged they let one of his soccer buddies DJ, and that was their _first_ mistake. Not double-checking the wedding mix before guests arrived was the second. Naturally, Mondo would sneak in whatever songs Michelangelo asked him to, which is how the attendees on the dance floor found themselves swaying to DDR music, and gratuitous amounts of Kesha, and what sounded like the Sailor Moon theme song. _Naturally._

Leonardo, Alopex and Karai were pink-faced with suppressed laughter. Raphael and Casey were wheezing with it, leaning on each other for support. Contrarily, April and Donatello were both glaring daggers at their newly wed brother, and if any two humans could spit actual fire, it would probably be those two in that moment _–_  so you decided the better part of valor was retreat, and whisked Michelangelo away to the relative safety of the dance floor. 

“You’re incorrigible,” you told him, mostly just for the sake of hearing him laugh. “And your siblings are going to kill us both. I’m afraid for my health already, and I’ve only been married into this family for – not even two hours. That’s got to be some kind of record.”

“Afraid, huh?” Michelangelo said, a crooked grin on his face. He’d been smiling all night, and didn’t look ready to stop anytime soon. “News flash, buddy – from now on, they’re _your_ siblings, too. And they love you almost half as much as I do! Which is a _lot,_ by the way. So what’s there to be afraid of?” 

_How could anyone_ not _be afraid of a love like this,_  a part of you wanted to ask, the part of you that had almost choked with nerves during your vows, the part that had kept you up for two nights before the wedding even with your fiancé sleeping soundly beside you. _I’m terrified, aren’t you?_

But you didn’t ask.

Because Michelangelo’s bow tie was hanging loose around his neck, and his tux jacket was gone entirely to parts unknown, the cuffs of his dress shirt rolled up to the elbow. He was wearing Chucks with his formal attire, of course he was, and his face was flushed under the warm string lights, blue eyes impossibly bright. Humming along to the contraband techno – _[look at us, baby, look at us now](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fyoutu.be%2Fx--MtrNvyk4&t=OGJjYmMyNmI5YjJiN2NiNTNlZjhiMDJiNzI4OTM3YmIwNGE0ZTk2OCwweEE1V0FuOA%3D%3D) –_  and not even once letting go of your hand, and you knew.

Of all the things in this world worth being afraid of, love was not one of them. 

 _Most of the time,_ you allowed indulgently, with a grin that you kissed into your husband’s hair. Thinking for a split second of your track record; of back-alley fights and Purple Dragons and rescued cats, mental illness and close calls and the long, hard road between “my name is,” and “until death do us part.” 

Maybe that kind of impossible, staggering love _was_ a little intimidating. Maybe it was okay to shrink in awe from time to time – to think _“wow”_  and hold him like you were _lucky_ to – never taking for granted the way your heart still bursts when he smiles, even after all these years.


	5. amazing things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone on tumblr asked how LH and Mike got together in this AU, and I was happy to oblige.

"So," Leatherhead says wryly, as he punches their pin into the small number pad on the elevator panel, "I take it you had a good time?"

"Shhhh, stop shouting." The words are almost lost against Leatherhead's shoulder, the deadweight on his back lifting a hand to half-heartedly push at the side of his face, adding reproachfully, "M'right here, y'don't have to shout."

"Oh, Michelangelo."

He's not in a fraternity–Greek Life at NYU isn't a major presence, not the way it is at other universities–but he has a frankly staggering number of friends regardless, and a standing invitation to whatever party promises to be the most fun on any particular night. Sometimes Casey, April or Donnie can be dragged along, too, but usually it's Hob and Woody, and tonight those two were probably the only reason there was still any Mikey left to peel off the floor and carry home.

_"Mikester can really hold his booze till about the sixth shot. And, okay, there was a Jägerbomb, but we didn't know he drank the whole thing until–"_

_"Just come pick him up. If campus security finds him like this, they're gonna call Leo, and then we're_ all _gonna die."_

And so Leatherhead had rolled out of bed at half past two o'clock in the morning, and ventured twenty minutes across the city to the address Woody texted him from Michelangelo's phone, and left with his roommate draped over his shoulder, humming disjointed Kesha lyrics in his ear.

"S'cold," Michelangelo mumbles when they're two floors from their loft, even with Leatherhead's jacket layered on top of his own. Leatherhead smiles fondly, though his friend can't see it.

"Almost there. Home will be warm."

As the elevator doors roll open to their apartment, and Leatherhead unlocks the security door and pushes the grate aside, Michelangelo buries a cold nose in the nape of Leatherhead's neck. The exposed skin there is disfigured, an ugly, raised red; but Michelangelo's fingers follow the chilly path of his nose, slow and appreciative.

He smooths cool trails over the hardened tissue, tracing patterns against the burn scars with soft hands. It's only when Leatherhead steps into the sunken living room, dubbed by Michelangelo as 'the pit,' that his friend says, "You're like a map, L."

"Is that so?"

"Mm. But not a map of–of _places_ , a map of _things_. You know? The Atlas of Lamar. You're so amazing. I love you a lot."

The wide windows are bare, and the early morning outside is winter gray and dark. Michelangelo's voice is full and tender, and the moment is impossibly intimate, impossibly sweet. But as lucid as he sounds, Michelangelo had a lot to drink; and Leatherhead is prepared not to take him seriously.

"You need to get some sleep," he says, and carefully deposits Michelangelo onto the sofa. "Tell me about maps and atlases in the morning, okay?"

But Michelangelo doesn't let go; he's in full koala-mode, arms wrapped stubbornly around Leatherhead's neck and shoulders, so the larger man kneels patiently beside the couch.

"You don't believe me," Michelangelo says, and there's honest hurt in his voice. Leatherhead smooths an affectionate hand over his forehead.

"Of course I do. You've done nothing but love me since the day we met. You're my dearest friend for a reason, Michelangelo."

"No," he insists, "about the other thing. The amazing thing. You don't believe me. But, look–" He shifts, and cups Leatherhead's face on the burned side with one cold hand, eyes wide and glassy in the dim room. " _Look._ You–you're a map of how amazing you are. All these things left all these marks on you, even invisible ones, and–you're still here. And you're so _good,_ even after everything that happened to you. And you're–you came to get me tonight. You carried me all the way here. You take such good care of me. You're so amazing. How are you so–"

Something deep in Leatherhead's heart is twisting painfully, like a pinched nerve, and Michelangelo's hand on his face burns. He swallows hard, and reminds himself that it's three o'clock in the morning, that Michelangelo isn't fully aware of what he's saying, that this will all be forgotten when he's awake again with the sun.

"You don't believe me," Michelangelo says again, staring at him with bright eyes. "But you're _amazing,_ L. There's proof, right here. Right where I'm holding you. The darkest, worst parts of the world got their hands on you, but then they had to let go, and you're still right here."

"Okay," Leatherhead says quietly, running fingers through his friend's curly hair. "It's okay, Michelangelo, just go to sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning."

"Okay," Michelangelo agrees, finally relaxing his grip and sinking back. "Oh, there's something I wanted to give you–remind me when I wake up, okay? Okay, L?"

"I will."

* * *

_"Ughhhhh."_

It's the only thing Michelangelo has said so far, and he's been awake for a quarter hour. Leatherhead smiles into the rim of his coffee cup, and says conversationally, "So, how do you feel?"

"Now you're just being mean." Michelangelo's voice is muffled where he's laying face-down on the sofa. "I'm dying, for your information."

"That _is_ a problem. I don't think I could afford this place on my own."

 _'You're amazing,'_ he'd said four hours ago, in a drunken stupor. Now he lifts his head blearily and says, "You're the worst."

Leatherhead knows better than to feel hurt.

And the longer he looks at those rumpled curls and watery blue eyes, the more he feels himself give in. "What am I going to do with you?" Leatherhead asks of him, and the beginnings of a smile tug across Michelangelo's mouth. Standing, Leatherhead sits his mug in the sink and reaches for a glass from the cabinet. "Come over here, you goofball. Coconut water will help, and I'll make you some scrambled eggs to go with it."

"I take it all back," he says, easing himself up right and crawling out of the pit. "You're the best, and I love you."

"I know you do."

It isn't until they're back on the couch, in the late hours of the afternoon, with Klunk between them and a movie on TV, that Leatherhead remembers what Michelangelo had asked of him the night before. He isn't sure if _Michelangelo_ will remember, but on the off-chance it was something important, he gives Michelangelo a gentle nudge.

The blond lifts his head off Leatherhead's shoulder with a "Whaaat?"

"Last night, you asked me to remind you that you had something to give me," Leatherhead says, with a smile at Michelangelo's blank expression. "I don't suppose you have any idea what that was, do you?"

Then, in the space of a moment, Michelangelo is grinning. It's an expression that takes Leatherhead up short.

"Um…What?"

Michelangelo scoots Klunk out of the space between them, and moves over, and over, swinging a leg across Leatherhead's lap; and then Michelangelo has him front and center, hands on his shoulders, still grinning ear to ear.

"Michelangelo–"

"Thanks for reminding me," he says, steady and solid as he brushes Leatherhead's hair out of the way, and cups the ruined side of his face. "You really _do_ take such good care of me, buddy. What would I do without you?"

"I–what?"

"You know I love you," Michelangelo says, the words shaped like a smile. "'Since the day we met.' Right?"

"Well," Leatherhead manages, his face burning. Michelangelo's hands are a cradle that keeps Leatherhead from ducking away or trying to hide. "Yes, of course, that's what I– How much do you remember from last night, anyway?"

"Not much from the party," his friend admits frankly, leaning back a little and tilting his head in thought. "Everything before I passed out is kind of a blur. I think Hob has a video of me and Woody dancing on a table, though, if you're interested. He said he put it on Facebook."

 _That_ small remark cuts through the flustered haze and the butterflies in his throat; Leatherhead jerks upright, one hand flying to Michelangelo's waist so he isn't thrown to the floor, and all but yelps, _"What?_ Mikey, you have _Leo_ on Facebook."

"So? What does that have to with… Oh. _Oh._ Hah… Yikes."

"Oh, _Michelangelo."_

"Hey, come on, I didn't do it!"

"Didn't record the video, or didn't put yourself in a situation worth recording?"

"Okay, I think what you're trying to do here is make this my fault, and I don't appreciate that. I was in a very delicate condition last night, thank you very much."

"I'll say. The cab ride home was the most uncomfortable cab ride of my life to date. With you puddled in my lap like you were, the driver must have thought I had _unscrupulous_ intentions with you."

" _First_ of all, you're super scrupulous. You're the most scrupulous guy I know, it's ridiculous. And second of all," he says, narrowing his eyes at Leatherhead, "before I get sidetracked again, let me give you that _thing_ I owe you. P.S., it's totally a kiss, in case you were wondering."

He smooths a thumb over the raised skin on Leatherhead's right cheek, something coy glinting in his face behind the playful scowl. His heart having calmed its wild thumping behind his breastbone, Leatherhead finds himself smiling.

"I wouldn't say you _owe_ me," he hedges, brave enough to tease. "All I did was carry you home at two o'clock in the morning, listen to you sing 'Blah Blah Blah' about ten times, and then tuck you into bed. And make you a breakfast rich in electrolytes and amino acids to curb your hangover. And–"

"Dude. Do you wanna kiss or not?"

He does, and they do, and Leatherhead can't remember ever loving anyone more.

"While we're on the subject of last night," he says, once they're back in movie position, and Michelangelo is cuddled against his shoulder and Klunk is warm between their knees, "do you want to explain the map thing again?" He presses another kiss into Michelangelo's hair, trying not to chuckle at the way the smaller man goes still in surprise. "Remember? You called me the 'Atlas of Lamar.'"

"I called you the _what?_ No way, you're making that up. Aren't you? Oh my god, _L,_ that's–that's really embarrassing. What _else_ did I say? Don't answer that."

He buries his face in his hands, but Leatherhead can tell from the way his shoulders are shaking that Michelangelo is laughing just as hard as he is.


	6. what you see

The lounge was in disarray, chairs upended and papers scattered across the floor, along with broken glass and what might once have been a coffee maker. Mikey picked his way through unhesitantly to the large, hunched figure in the corner.

It was one thing to be passively aware that Leatherhead had PTSD, Donatello realized, and quite another thing altogether to _see_ it.

"Hey, Ellie," Mikey said kindly, crouching within arm's reach but making no move to touch. Donnie couldn't see his expression from where he stood, but he could picture the patient smile and lamplike blue eyes. "Are you okay for me to touch you? You can nod or shake your head. You won't hurt me, dude, I'm not worried."

After a moment, Leatherhead's broad shoulders uncurled only barely, and his head dipped in concession. Mikey scooted forward eagerly, and wrapped tanned hands around his forearm.

Donnie moved closer, until he was standing behind Mikey's shoulder at a respectable distance. Wanted to make clear that he was _with_ them, and not apart. He was ashamed, constantly, of his unwarranted dislike of Lamar in the beginning, this man who had lost two sets of parents in much the same way Donnie had, this orphan who hadn't had a Leo to mend all the hurts and smooth down the sharp edges of a rebroken heart.

But that was years ago, and they were friends now; they shared books and citations and long three a.m. discussions on Facebook about string theory and Star Trek in equal measure. And Donnie would share this with him, too, this pain and these scars, if Leatherhead would let him.

"I'm still your safe place, ain't that right? And I'm right here, LH, so you know what that means, huh? If I'm here and I'm safe, you must be, too." And Donnie realized in a rush that Mikey's method with all the one-sided conversation was never to _convince,_ it was to simply _reassure._ Leatherhead could have no clue what he was saying, but it wasn't the content that mattered, it was the voice, and the resilient, impossible young man the voice belonged to, and Mikey would talk until the sky fell down if that's what it took to bring Leatherhead safely back home.

"I'm here, buddy," Mikey said, words shaped like a smile still, crouching in the office space ruin like there was nowhere else in the world for him to go. And it made Donnie think of Leo – and Leo would be mortified but Mikey would be _thrilled_ if Donnie ever told them how much like Leo Mikey was turning out to be. Selfless and steadfast and endlessly stubborn where it mattered. "How about you take a look around, tell me what you see?"

And it was no surprise when Leatherhead lifted his head and his green eyes didn't stutter past Mikey's face. Lost and dazed, pale and shaken, but coming into focus with alacrity, going soft with unspeakable gratitude and impossible affection. He leaned into the hand Mikey cupped around the burned side of his face, like he had forgotten about the scars there – and really, Donnie thought, didn't _that_ say it all?

"Well?" Mikey prompted impishly, and Leatherhead exhaled the barest ghost of a laugh.

"I see you," Leatherhead said, like it was the only answer. And who knew, maybe it was.


End file.
